


A pair of pretty brown eyes: continuation and conclusion

by MaybeItsJustMyType, OhMaybe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU after HLV, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friendship, Post HLV, Pre TAB, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:23:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14430480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/pseuds/MaybeItsJustMyType, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhMaybe/pseuds/OhMaybe
Summary: To mark what would have been her birthday, this work is posted as part of The MaybeItsJustMyType Collection in Kiki's memory. Following on from her story 'A pair of pretty brown eyes,' these are the concluding three chapters based on MaybeItsJustMyType's notes and drafts, completed by OhAine (posting as OhMaybe because that was a silly ship name we used for each other).Her original summary reads:One week post HLV, Mary sends John to check on Sherlock, John finds Sherlock so overwrought that he lets slip about a certain pathologist being in his mind. John runs to Mary with the news like a puppy bringing back a ball and they decide to play Cupid, but they've got their work cut out for them. The broadcaster is about to make his next move which will throw everything into turmoil and who even knows how Molly feels about him anymore, those slaps were hard.





	1. Twelve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaybeItsJustMyType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A pair of pretty brown eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083049) by [MaybeItsJustMyType](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaybeItsJustMyType/pseuds/MaybeItsJustMyType). 



> Unbeta'd. I own nothing but the typos.

**_A/N:_ ** _For those of you who don’t know, these three chapters are based on 'A pair of pretty brown eyes' by my darling friend Kiki, aka MaybeItsJustMyType, who sadly passed away in September of last year. In our daily exchanges we frequently talked about writing and our fics, and she told me countless times that it weighed on her mind that she had multi-chapter stories still to be completed. She (like me) was more often a reader than a writer, and she understood the frustration felt by those who followed a story loyally for ages only to have it abandoned by the author. When she spoke of her in-progress stories she once said that she was determined to finish them, not only because she felt that she owed it to those who had supported and loved them, but because it would give her a sense of accomplishment and pride. She was determined to finish what she had started, and some time before her death she sent an outline of the last chapters of this story to me, and for weeks we discussed what should happen next in the plot. But it was never to be. Her health continued to deteriorate and she rightly devoted what little energy and time she had to her two beautiful young sons._

_When deciding how best to pay tribute to her through this collection, it occurred to me that there was one last thing that I could still do for her. With her family’s permission (and in particular my thanks goes to her dearest sister Azraella), I’m finishing this story using her notes and draft paragraphs, so that wherever her beautiful soul has gone to she can tick that box on her list as done._

_Where possible I used her own words, and this chapter (number 12 as you follow on from her original story) is about 50% just hers, the remainder is me filling in the gaps between paragraphs and lines. Chapters 13 & 14 are made up of my words based on her outline. Obviously, this chapter will make absolutely no sense to you unless you've read Kiki's first eleven chapters._

_I hope I’ve done her story justice, and I hope that you the reader enjoy this one last piece of writing from an extraordinary woman._

_~ Aine (OhAine)_

_(Kiki darling, if wherever you are allows iPhones I know you are still reading and writing Sherlolly stories, so you’ll see that I’ve fixed the Andover problem - you’ll laugh when you see how simple the solution was. Forgive me if my writing isn’t as pretty as yours. Just for you, OhMaybe finally sets sail._

_Happy birthday, darling one. I miss you every day._

_~ Love, your Irish doll xx)_

 

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

“Wait here,” Sherlock leapt gracefully from the cab and shot the instruction over his shoulder at the driver. Snapping his collar up, he squared himself and strode toward the dingy little backstreet garage.

Already he’d caught the attention of one of its occupants. A young man in oil stained overalls took one look at Sherlock and turned on his heel. Breaking into a sprint the boy ran to a small, even grubbier building at the back of the main workshop.

Eyes glinting as they flitted about taking stock of the other men dotted about the place, Sherlock decided that if a fall back position was needed he’d have to rely on brains and not brawn. He was out numbered four to one, and just about every tool that lay scattered about the place could be used as a weapon to very effectively end him with no more than one blow. Collectively they had at least two hundred pounds on his lithe frame, but given the chance he could make that work to his advantage.  _Still, best not to test that theory if he could avoid it._

In the end it became evident that wouldn’t be necessary. The gathered goons soon dispersed when the owner of the disreputable establishment in which he stood appeared and beckoned him into his office. The message clear: Sherlock was under the guv’ner’s protection –  _for the time being at least._

Said guv’ner leaned against the door frame as Sherlock pushed past him and flopped into the only seat in the makeshift office, deliberately making himself right at home. Filthy, far beyond what would be expected of a man in his trade, the mechanic was a spectacularly ugly creature who oozed arrogance, disdain and day-old sweat. Damp patches of yellowed perspiration under his arms and in the vee of his ample cleavage gave him the air of a man mere months from a fatal heart attack – which no doubt would be welcome news for his long-suffering wife and her lover.

Andrew, aka The Mechanic, aka Moriarty’s go to man for all things pyrotechnic, sized Sherlock up, curling his lip as he spoke, “And to what do we owe the pleasure of the presence of the great Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

“Just dropped in for tea,” Sherlock quipped, pulling his gloves off one finger at a time and folding his hands in his lap. “Some biscuits would be lovely too. Gingernuts if you have them.”

The mechanic grunted. “’fraid I can’t oblige,” he turned his back and headed toward the stack of cardboard boxes that passed for a filing cabinet. “But I do ’ave a message for you.”

Lip twitching into a smile, Sherlock tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, “Oh do you now?”

“I certainly do. Can’t promise it’ll make sense though.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sherlock smirked.

“Right you are, mate.” The mechanic kicked his way through the empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers that littered the floor. He perched his expansive backside on the desk next to his guest, sneering, “After all, you’re a genius, miles ahead of the rest of us mere mortals. Think you’re better than me, eh?”

“Maybe you should just regard everyone as your better and stop attempting to form opinions.” Sherlock folded his arms impatiently, “Just get on with it.”

What it came down to was this: he may not have been half as clever as the man in front of him, but Andrew knew something that Sherlock didn’t, and in his estimation that put him a million miles ahead of the world’s only consulting ponce. With a smug grin showing off his brown, stumpy teeth, the mechanic read from a scrap of torn off paper.

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

Moriarty had once said that he had like to watch Sherlock dance. 

Puzzles. Games. The consulting criminal had loved them every bit as much as Sherlock, and this latest message from beyond the grave brought to him by The Mechanic was another trademark Moriarty move: an obscure clue to muddy the waters.

 _Your world will end under the sun,_ The Mechanic had said _._ It could mean anything or nothing at all. 

Fingers steepled before his pursed lips, Sherlock folded himself into his fireside chair and let his eyelids fall shut. Images, words, fragments of remembered phrases and songs that spoke of sun and shadow, death and destruction were all one by one dismissed from his mind as irrelevant. He’d long held the opinion that whoever they were dealing with, the broadcaster was someone very much devoted to Moriarty. No mere paid employee would have the capacity to lavish such care on a game designed in honour of James Moriarty, nor would they have understood him,  _knew_   _him_  well enough to replicate his methods so closely. A disciple, or a lover. Perhaps the broadcaster was both.

Moran, then, was a possibility. Moriarty’s second in command fitted the bill to perfection, and Sherlock cast his mind back to start of this little game of theirs:  _Whoever was responsible for the broadcast had known Moriarty personally. Had loved Moriarty with an almost unparalleled intensity. Only Molly's love for him rivalled the depth of it, he wondered if Moriarty had done as little as he himself had to deserve this kind of worshipful tribute_ , had been his very first instinct, but somewhere along the way he’d lost sight of that. An unrequited love – or more accurately, an unfulfilled love – required connection,  _contact_  to sustain it.

Again he let his thoughts dwell on the past, on his own feelings and how they had betrayed him. Without ever meaning to, Sherlock had let something of importance slip, and months ago in a moment of distraction he given away to John his weakness for Molly’s pretty brown eyes and the way they occupied his mind and possessed his soul. 

His equal in everything, had Moriarty made the same mistake?

He’d been driven to Andover by a fragment of memory. Once, under interrogation, Moriarty had let it slip that Moran – obvious to Sherlock now, this was an assumed identity – had been in the Glasshouse; military slang for the army’s prison.

Had Andover – where records of the Glasshouse’s inmates were kept – been a deliberately planted attempt at diversion? Did Moriarty know he’d someday be sending Sherlock on a wild goose chase? The more he thought about it the less likely it seemed. No. Andover held the key, he was sure of it. He’d been close. The timing of the attack on Molly had been too coincidental for it to be anything other than a deliberate attempt to distract him. And it had worked. 

Still, he felt his heart flutter beneath his sternum at the very thought, he couldn’t regret returning to be with  _her_. 

Something tender bloomed in his heart. Behind his closed lids he relived the veracity of her soft sighs that spoke of love, the kindness in each benevolently bestowed touch, the promises in every lingering kiss. Molly had been his friend, and now she was his lover. One day he would make her his wife. Against his steepled fingers he felt his lips curl into an involuntary fond smile.

Through a distant fog he heard John say, “When Clara grins like that it means she’s passing wind.”

Sherlock froze; mentally snapping the blinds shut against John’s prying eyes and blinked himself back into 221B’s living room to find the good doctor sitting opposite him, a mug of tea in hand. 

“Molly said you’d gone after a lead. Though I might make myself useful and pop ‘round, see if I could help, I know how you value my little contributions,” John teased.

“Little being the operative word,” Sherlock returned his smile, tight lipped and condescending. “It was nothing of importance.”

“Important enough to keep you away from investigating at the restaurant. Something to do with Andover?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

John rolled his eyes, “Could you stop being all mysterious long enough to tell me what’s niggling at you? I might actually be able to help.”

Sighing, Sherlock rattled off the particulars, “When Moriarty was locked up, during a particularly… _energetic_  interrogation he mentioned that  _Sebby_  had been in the glasshouse. _Glasshouse_  of course you know is the term used by soldiers for their military prisons. I had hoped that he’d finally slipped. So I made my way to the base. Then Molly was— _”_ Breaking off, he cleared his throat, closing his eyes for a moment before he managed, “— _hurt_.”  He sat with his fists clenched in his lap for a time, gathering himself. When he resumed all trace of emotion had gone, his rapid-fire deduction mode cloaking his feelings, “So I came home and there didn’t seem to be much point to going back. I’d been through every one of the inmate files, nothing matched to Moran or Moriarty. No doubt it was a fox hole, a goose chase that Moriarty knew I would unable to resist someday when the timing was least convenient.”

Grimacing, John sipped his tea, “Ah, well, he did enjoy a game, didn’t he?” 

Sherlock scrubbed his hand across his lips, his frustration at his lack of progress with the case was palpable, “Yes. He did.”

Sensing that a change of topic might be in order, John asked, “And how’re things with Molly? How’s domestic bliss? You’ll be gaining weight next!” John stopped, his mug of tea half way to his lips, “Oh God, Mary’ll kill me for taking the piss, please don’t tell her I said that, I’m sure you won’t put on so much as half an ounce.”

Raising a brow, Sherlock scoffed, “Oh relax John, when have you ever known me to be vain?”  he said without a trace of irony. “Should I happen to gain weight, I would simply exercise more,” he ended with a salacious wink, leaving no confusion as to exactly what type of exercise he meant.

With a sigh, John acknowledged, “Nice for some, I guess. Clara seems to be destined to remain an only child if her current behaviour is any indication. She’s developed a policy of only sleeping when we are awake. I’m on the verge of mortgaging the flat to pay for a nanny just so I can get a decent night’s sleep.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped beating, his eyes gone wide. With that one word everything had slotted into place. “Oh.  _OH!_  John you are a genius!”  

John cut him a dirty look from under his lashes, “No need to be sarcastic. I was only kidding. I’m not that hard up for a leg over.”

The comeback was lost on Sherlock though. Sebby dearest had been in military prison according to Moriarty, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d been  _held_  there. No. There were more than just prisoners living behind those well surveilled walls – the nannys,  _the prison guards_ , lived there too. 

Within seconds he fired off a text to Mycroft:

**_Need immediate priority access to Glasshouse employee records. Same time frame as the prisoner records I examined – SH_ **

Sherlock positively beamed at a very confused John. For such a dull little man, he really could be surprisingly luminous. 

The game was back on!

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

There was just one more matter that had to be seen to before Sherlock could return to Andover in the morning.

He hated lying to Molly, yet that was precisely what he was going to do.  _It was for her own protection_ , he justified,  _he would keep her safe at any cost and deal with the consequences of his dishonesty later._

Before he’d left for the military HQ to investigate last time, he’d let slip to her and only her where he was going. And he couldn’t dismiss the idea that somehow that knowledge had been the very reason she’d been put in danger.  _Never again_ , he swore,  _never again_. Somehow, someone in their trusted circle had gleaned that bit of information and put it to nefarious use. 

_But who?_

Again and again one man occupied Sherlock’s thoughts. Steven Aikens. Stevie, as Molly called him, had fast become her friend. In fact he’d wheedled his way into to the good graces of all around him, and it was possible that Molly had innocently given him that one piece of important information. The evidence was stacking up. Not only had Molly been on her way to cook for a suddenly ill Stevie when she was attacked and drugged, but the MI6 agent – Mycroft’s choice, for Christ’s sake – had been with her and Anthea when his soon to be sister-in-law fell ill. Even though he knew that Mycroft would have vetted him personally, every instinct in Sherlock’s body was telling him that something was off.

For now he’d keep his suspicions to himself. Mycroft was more than capable of sending Sherlock on a one way mission to Serbia to keep him out of his ever thinning hair if he so much as questioned the security team. The stress of a recently hospitalised pregnant fiancée and an imminent Pinterest wedding wasn’t exactly helping Mikey’s ability to tolerate insubordination from his minions at the moment, and, like it or not, Sherlock definitely fell into that same category while he repaid the debt owed from sorting out the Magnussen affair. 

But there was more than one way to skin a cat. And Sherlock knew most of them.

It was no coincidence that the mysterious broadcaster had chosen to convey his cryptic message to Sherlock by means of a man with a fondness for all things explosive. And while he was certain that  _he_  would be the eventual target of the fake Moriarty’s vengeance when it finally came, it never hurt to keep a weather eye on – well, yes, he could admit it now, if only to himself – his loved ones. 

Twirling a cheap plastic mobile between his fingers, Sherlock paused when he heard the stairs creak. “Billy?”

“All right Shezza!” came the reply. Foot falls increasing in speed, Billy Wiggins bounced into the room looking positively gleeful at being summoned.

“Stop calling me that.” Sherlock admonished half-heartedly. 

Looking not so thoroughly chastised, he flopped into John’s chair and agreed with a cheeky grin, bowing his head with a flourish, “Yes  _Mr ‘olmes_.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock frowned though his lips twitched. “I need you for a job.”

Lighting up, Billy babbled, “A job? For you? You need me to help you with a delicate operation?” His eyebrows rose conspiratorially as he leaned forward, “I ’ope it’s something beyond my chemistry skills. As your protégé I think it’s time you teach me the finer points of your particular skill set, some of which currently… _elude_  me.”

Sighing, Sherlock took him in, eyes flicking over him: the boy really was getting notions about himself. “I need you to get the word out across the network, all eyes on Molly Hooper until I say otherwise. Twenty four/seven. Text updates to be sent to me every hour, on the hour.  Anything or anyone out of the ordinary within a fifty mile radius of her – if a kitten so much as sneezes in her direction – I want to know about it. Understood?”

“The missus gets our undivided attention. Got it Shez.”

There was bugger all point arguing that she was not his  _missus_  as that was merely a legal technicality at this stage – one that he planned to rectify as soon as he’d dealt with the broadcaster. “Then, I need you to work at Great Fosters as a kitchen porter. I will of course supply you with clothes and I’ve taken the liberty of putting you up in a room in Surrey, a spot has opened in the shared house where a few of the kitchen staff live. One of their number has gone to seek fame and fortune in the colonies it seems,” he added with a self-congratulatory smirk.

“The land down under, boss? I always thought I’d quite like it there, not sure if I can go though, criminal record ’n all.” 

Rubbing his temples, Sherlock snorted, “That’s the very definition of irony.”

Feeling pleased as punch to have amused his mentor, Billy grinned inanely. 

Sherlock cleared his throat pointedly.

Snapping to attention, Billy exclaimed. “A pot walloper? I can do that, I’ve washed dishes before, I mean, who ‘asn’t really?” Cocking his head, Billy grinned, “Well, present company excluded, I guess the ‘olmes’ boys don’t do dishes, do they?”

Sighing again, Sherlock’s lips flattened into a pale, impatient line as Billy’s verbal diarrhoea continued. 

“Yes Billy, a  _pot walloper_  as you so eloquently put it. My brother is getting married there in two days so pay particular attention to the Orangery on the hotel grounds where the ceremony will be held and anyone involved with the reception in the Tithe Barn. I need you to keep an eye out, anything at all that strikes you as unusual. Make friends quickly. Pay for information if you have to. Whatever it takes, get people talking and get the job done. You start tomorrow morning. No matter how small the detail, if you find anything you call me from this phone.” He threw a cheap burner to Billy who caught it deftly.

“Right you are boss. I’m your man,” he winked, visibly puffed up with pride at having been trusted again.

Sherlock allowed his lips to curve ever so slightly in encouragement, “Anything, Billy. I’m counting on you.” 

Bouncing to his feet, Billy saluted wildly, his hand arcing out widely from his forehead in a parody Sherlock was thankful Captain John Watson wasn’t there to witness. “You can count on me boss, I’ve got your back.” 

“Remember, I want hourly reports on Doctor Hooper. And stay off the sweeties while you’re in Surrey,” he called after him, “All of them!”

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

Sherlock knew he was in trouble. 

Molly was pouting. And Molly  _never_  pouted. “Can’t this wait? The wedding’s in less than forty eight hours. We’re supposed to be driving to Surry tomorrow, and I was so looking forward to us staying in a nice hotel together.”

“It really can’t,” he smoothed his hand over her silky crown, cradling her head in his hand. “A long promised favour has been called in, there’s nothing I can do about the timing. Look, the case is a three at best, I’ll probably have solved it in an hour and be at the hotel before you.” 

She smiled at him fondly, eyes shining, and pushed up on to her toes to kiss him ever so tenderly. Molly’s mouth was velvet soft against his own. Playfully, she nipped his bottom lip and leaned forward, her forehead against his, “Promise?”

As his gaze roamed over her beautiful face, lingering in her deep, russet eyes, and on her pert nose, he wondered if it really  _was_  necessary. Surely a phone call would suffice and that way he could stay right here with her? But the thought was dismissed immediately, knowing that the sooner he’d put the broadcast behind them, the sooner he could begin his life with her without the ghosts of the past coming back to forever haunt them.

Running his hands over her back and following the curve of her spine, his eyes darkened and he kissed her. “You know,” he rumbled against her lips, “when I get back from this case I’ll be ever so tired.”

Molly arched a wicked eyebrow at him, “Oh? Is that so?”

“Hmm,” he agreed humming against her soft kiss. “Might be in desperate need of a… _nap_.”

Swallowing hard, she smacked his backside, “Best be on your way then.”

The thread that tied his heart to hers drew painfully tight beneath his sternum. He hated this: leaving, lying to her as he went. Necessary as it was, for the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes found that the means – though they justified the end – sat uncomfortably with him. Something inside of him was changing. Something in his character was rising to the challenge of being deserving of the sweet gifts of love that Molly had bestowed upon him. As much as he knew it should frighten him, that he should think it a weakness to want something so ordinary so badly, he found that he couldn’t.

He could sense it – like electricity in the air before a storm – the end of the case was coming and nothing would ever be the same again. 

One last time his kissed her, his hands on her waist caressing her gently. “Goodbye, Molly Hooper,” he touched his lips to her cheek and was gone.

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

Billy wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay in the one place and turn up to work every day.  _How’d normal people do it anyway?_  It was pure hell, his very organs itched to escape this dull half-lived existence, with or without him. He wouldn’t have been surprised to develop appendicitis just so that it could make its escape. 

He’d been put on polishing the silver tea sets that were only used for the crème de la crème of guests. They were to be kept in sight of the security guard and anyone else who may come through on their way to the employees’ lounge where the lockers were. So he had a perfect view of all the staff bustling back and forth. 

Most of them were boring: get up, come to work, bitch, moan, scratch their arses and stand around, then back home to shag their other half, or mope alone, before losing themselves in television until bed time rolled around so they could sleep only to repeat the whole cycle again. They were like zombies, groceries on a conveyor belt, lost sheep, with no recognition that wolves were amongst them. 

There was one that stood out from the herd though. 

At first glance the head chef — Luke — seemed like the rest, and certainly he had them all fooled. He was fit, not unattractive, and he cut a romantic figure with his widower/single dad thing going on. Billy though, he could see there was more to him than met the eye. A thrum of danger hummed around him, he was an addict and Billy knew enough about that particular breed to know one when he saw it. He’d deduced, correctly as it happened, gambling – or more precisely – cards was the chef’s drug of choice. 

Luke knew about the wolves, was in fact drawn to them, couldn't help himself, in spite of the fact that he was the sole provider for two young kids. 

Billy’s own parents had been had been thoroughly domesticated animals, maybe too domesticated, for the wolves had found them. Wolves in the form of motor cars with steel teeth had taken a bite out of Billy’s life. A trucker, utterly fried, trying to make the long nights a little more bearable had lost control on an icy patch. 

And William, clever little William who had held so much potential, so much promise for a bright future, had simply disappeared. Billy had taken his place and promptly locked William away. William would only be a liability where poorly disguised wolves masqueraded as sheep and the real sheep affected not to see. 

He was keeping his eye on the chef though he doubted he’d have anything to report, still, it was something to do and since actual entertainment was fairly short around here - because if ‘olmes caught him using when he’d given him a task, he’d never work for him again - he needed something to focus on while he waited for the action. He had to keep William under lock and key. That nervy little pissant wouldn't last half a day in his shoes. 

Speak of the devil, here he came now, loping along. His chef’s patterned pants were creased, he hadn’t bothered to iron them, his white smock was soiled, a splash of gravy on the sleeve and he hadn’t changed yet. Course that could be what he was planning to do now, he was heading to the employee’s lounge after all.

Feigning a stretch, Billy cupped one hand in the other and held them both above his head. Closing his eyes, he pulled his body as taut as the strings on Sherlock’s -  _don’t touch Billy, in fact, don’t look at it_  - Strad, finally he added a yawn and used this as the impetus to fall off of his chair.

From the floor he could now see Luke in the break room, easing a finger into his collar; sweat edged his forehead, painting a seam between hair and skin, his breath was short and Billy knew his heart would be thumping if he took his pulse. 

His tone was placatory, bordering on begging, “Okay, I’ve got it, I’ll - ” 

He was cut short by whoever was on the other end of the call. Billy couldn’t hear what was being said on the other half of the conversation, but he could tell that the chef was terrified. 

Luke had turned an off-grey colour, his hands shook as he gasped into the phone, “I’ll sort it, I promised didn’t I?”  Pushing himself onto the balls of his feet, he scrabbled along until he found his locker key. His voice was barely raised above a whisper when he rasped, “Please, I gave my word, Just - please.”

Billy had seen enough, he picked himself up and plopped back into his chair, nodding silently to himself; gambling debts, every bit as bad as a drug problem, even if you couldn't see it on the outside, on the inside they were just as desperate and bleak.

He stood, stretched and waved a pack of fags at the security guard who gave him the nod that it was okay to take a ciggy break. As soon as he’d made it outside where he was sure no one could see, Billy pulled up Sherlock’s number and tapped out a text.

And if he’d been paying less attention to what he’d planned to say, he might even have heard the whisper of soft shoes creeping up behind him.

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

Before a bank of monitors Stevie sat and watched the feed from Great Fosters’ rear employee entrance as the chef exited, cleaver in hand. That snivelling little shit Wiggins was about to get what was coming to him.

At long last it was all coming together.

Holmes had done them all a favour by clearing off on some triviality, and now his lackey was taken care of too leaving the way clear for Stevie to execute his beautiful plan. Finally, _finally_ , Sherlock Holmes would know how it felt to lose everything he loved. He would know exactly how Stevie had felt the day Jamie Moriarty had been taken from him.

The timer was ticking.

The countdown had begun.

And as the bride and groom shared their first kiss, Sherlock Holmes’ world would end.

 


	2. Thirteen

For a split second it had all been so clear.

The broadcaster – _Sebastian Moran_ , Sherlock was now sure of that – must have been a military prison guard. Equally sure too that Steven Aikens was Moran’s inside man. Yet, as he waded through file after file, photo after photo, nothing had turned up and Sherlock was hitting the same brick wall as when he’d looked through the inmate records on his last visit.

For as much as he argued that logic – pure reasoning –  was the only remedy, he couldn’t dismiss the feeling in his gut that he was right about Andover and that the answers he so desperately needed were to be found there.

Moriarty was capable of misdirection and lies, that was a fact. But never would he risk tainting the thrill of the game. He'd let something important slip and Sherlock’s bone deep feeling that somewhere in the basement file storage room, behind the locked cages that held the dust covered files, lay the key to this entire mystery _had_ to be right.

But time was running out.

Already, the guests would have begun to assemble at Great Fosters for the wedding, and Sherlock was still no closer to the truth. _At least_ , he thought, _all’s quiet there_. He’d hadn't heard a word from Wiggins, who, despite his many faults was reliable enough.

Twenty hours had passed since he first arrived at Andover, and yet he’d found nothing. Paper records had taken up the bulk of it. Years’ worth of them were piece by piece taken apart, one page at a time, looking, searching. Only the last ten were on Andover’s internal human resource system, they’d been easier to search, faster, but still hadn’t netted any results.

In a fit of anger, he slammed his fists against the table top, drawing the attention of the clerk whose job it was to keep the caged storage area in order.

“No luck, Mr Holmes?” he asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair, agitated, “ _Luck_ ,” he snarled, “has nothing to do with it.”

“Some luck in it though,” the clerk insisted, beginning to put some shape back on the records that Sherlock had haphazardly discarded in a circle around him on the floor. “Would have been twice as many paper ones to sort through if it hadn’t been for the IT upgrade back in 2010.”

Sherlock blinked at him, the ever present feeling in his gut turning cartwheels. “What upgrade?”

“Oh, big cost saving initiative in the MoD. After ’08 and the budget cuts they started looking for redundancies – early retirement they called it of course – more cost effective to pay millions for a new record system than to keep on the admin staff that was here. Nearly fifty of us, there were, now it’s just me and a couple of IT guys that weren’t even out of nappies when I joined the force.”

By now Sherlock’s thumbs were prickling. “Who?” he asked, sharp enough to make the clerk jump, just a little.

“You met them on your way in. Joe and Sam, the ones who set up your user ID and access—”

“Not those idiots,” already on his feet, Sherlock looked like a man possessed, lightbulbs flashing behind his eyes as the puzzle pieces began to fall. “Tell me about the ones who installed the new system.”

“The contractors?”

Pulling out his phone, swirling his coat and scarf around himself he nodded impatiently. “Names. Descriptions. Anything you can remember.”

“Uh. There were two of them. Travelled ‘round all the bases first, before they came here. A little fella, something off about him. Dead in the eyes, know what I mean? A mick, I think—”

Sherlock became complete still, his blood turning to ice.

“—and a tall bloke. Londoner, if I had to guess. Kind of looked like you. Only blond.”

“Sebastian Moran?” Sherlock asked.

“No that weren’t it. Something like it though. Definitely an S sound.”

“Steven,” his voice had turned to pure ice, and he damned himself for never having taken a photo of Molly’s friend.

The clerk snapped his fingers, “That’s it! Nice chap. Always smiling.”

He knew the clerk was waiting for an explanation, but Sherlock wasn’t interested anymore. His focus had gone to his phone and questions about why Mycroft’s mobile was going straight to voicemail.

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

“I really don’t see why this is necessary,” Mycroft curled his fingers tightly around his phone and held it just out reach.

“Because,” Stevie frowned, grabbing for it again and missing by inches, “it’s your wedding. The last thing Anthea needs is your phone going off in the middle of the ceremony—”

“Which is still two hours away,” Mycroft pointed out, giving all around him a sharp look. “No need to surrender it so early in the day.”

“And what if it goes off now, hmm? Can you honestly say that if there’s a call from Vauxhall you won’t answer it?”

“If it’s in the interest of national security, then naturally.”

“It might be in the interest of _your_ security,” Mummy chimed in. “Come on, Mycroft. There are plenty of people back in London capable of handling whatever comes up. This is just one day in your life, and the woman upon whom your future happiness depends wants one favour, no mobiles going off and ruining her special moment.”

“Anthea understands—”

“Amy,” Stevie corrected. “Today she’s just Amy. Anthea, the Iceman, neither of them exist.”

Molly, who had been watching the exchange from the side lines, knew from Mycroft’s tone that he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The Holmes boys had so much in common – stubbornness, for example, high handed condescension for another – and it was no exaggeration to say that both of them appeared to have had their mobiles surgically grafted on to their right hands. He wasn’t going to give in so easily. Neither was Stevie, whose suggestion it had been in the first place to clear the room of phones lest the vows be drown out by a series of vibrations and the clattering of heels as congregants rushed outside for hushed conversations that could easily have waited half an hour. She could see his point, and reluctantly she’d agreed to give up her own.

“Mycroft,” she said gently, placing a hand on his forearm that was petulantly folded over his chest. “Think of all she’s giving you. Can’t you give this one thing to her? Stevie has routed all emergency calls to go through the hotel switch, if it’s urgent,” her mind immediately conjured images of Sherlock, who’d only text once in the last twenty four hours to say he’d be late but would make the ceremony, “we’ll know.”

He studied her for just moments, appearing to decide to say what was on his mind.

“Sherlock—”

“—Will be here,” Molly squeezed his arm to reassure his brother. “I trust him, and so should you.”

Of the many ways he’d changed in these last weeks and months, Sherlock allowing himself to be loved was the most surprising. People got him wrong, constantly. The thought he was cold and unfeeling, that the walls he’d built were to keep them out. But they didn’t understand. The truth of it was he loved too well, too much, and the walls were to contain _him_ , to protect himself. He was fearful in ways that others couldn’t see. Yet he’d found the courage to let her in, and in doing so had found a way to be a better brother to Mycroft too. Sherlock wouldn’t let him down, not today when it mattered most. Still. There was an odd feeling knotting her stomach that something wasn’t quite right.

Mycroft sighed, longsuffering and loud. They looked at each other, and she _knew_ that he knew what she was thinking. He handed his phone to Stevie, saying, “It’s to be returned to me the moment the ceremony ends.”

“Stevie,” Molly said, her lips pursed and pale, her hand still on Mycroft’s arm. “Could you do us a favour please?”

“Anything for you, precious,” he smiled at her fondly, pocketing the mobile.

“Could you check on Sherlock? See if he’s left a message at the front desk?”

For the briefest of moments it seemed to Molly that his expression, his tone of voice, was calculated and cold. But then he kissed her cheek, pulling her into a one armed hug.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered so that only she could hear. “I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

There was nothing about the way he said those words that made her feel any better.

 ~o0oo0oo0o~

 

The silence – the darkness – was so completely alien to a city boy like Billy that he couldn’t be sure whether it was the strangeness of it all or the cocktail of drugs that had been pumped into his bloodstream at regular intervals over the last twenty four hours that was making his heart beat with an irregular _rat tat tat_ only matched in its ferocity by the thumping of the headache he still hadn’t quite gotten over. He’d been hit pretty hard, concussed most likely, and had been left lying at an odd angle on the floor. Wrists and ankles chained to a steel pillar, he tried to shuffle himself upright and in the process reopened the healing wound on his head causing a thin drop of blood to run down his face, blurring his vision as it caught on his lashes.

He shouldn’t be alive. That much he’d gleaned from the one sided conversation he’d heard between his assailant and whoever was at the back of this. Luke, the chef, he wasn’t clever enough to pull something like this off by himself, that much was obvious. Someone else was in charge, someone with more balls than brains too because they trusted Luke when he’d said he’d offed Wiggins. The thing was though, when your day job involved offering a sort of concierge service to addicts, it was only right that sometimes you sampled the product before passing it on to the customers. Over time, Billy had built up a tolerance and though he’d played dead as he lay on the ice cold concrete floor, he’d been listening with more attention that most would have given him credit for.

Luke was too much of a chicken shit to do the job himself, but it became apparent that he thought his lie would never be uncovered because someone was planning to do a more thorough job that involved a bomb and Shezza’s brother’s wedding. The chef was as bright as he was brave, because thanks to him Billy now knew where the bomb was and how they planned to deal with the Boss.

Not that it would do him much good. Met issue hand cuffs encircled his wrists, something heavier on his ankles: both attached to chains that were firmly fixed to the pillar with padlocks.

Billy Wiggins, and what he knew would be staying put. There was no way he could possibly free himself.

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

The drive from Andover should have taken two hours but passed instead in just one. Sherlock was barely able to remember any of it.

Fearful, terrible images crowding his mind marked the miles, as he called phone after phone only to find that all went straight to voicemail, even the switchboard at the hotel couldn’t be reached.

His hired Land Rover tore on to the private grounds as the service was about to begin. Security staff raced toward him, blocking his way. MI6 agents were milling everywhere. Men in good suits with ear pieces all assessing whether to draw their firearms or not. No indication of anything out of the ordinary. No sign of Steven either.

The eerily calm surroundings conflicted with the panic rising higher and higher with each shaky breath that Sherlock took. He abandoned his car, engine still running, and ran to Mycroft’s men, practically growling, “Where’s my brother?”

“I’m sorry, Sir—”

“You will be if you don’t answer me now. _Where. Is. He_.”

From behind him he heard a sickly sweet voice tell the men, “Stand down.”

As Steven – _Moran_ , Sherlock mentally corrected – approached, he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and told the agent, “It’s alright. He’s Mr Holmes’ brother and best man, we’ve been looking for him everywhere. You can carry on as before, I’ll take care of this.”

They dispersed as they’d been instructed, leaving the two men alone. Immediately Moran let his mask slip. “Finally figured it out?”

Sherlock let his gaze flick over his smug expression, glittering eyes, the crooked smile where the corner of Moran’s lip was curling up. “You’re the broadcaster.”

Moran tipped his head in acknowledgement, “Guilty as charged.”

“You filmed Moriary before his death, and engineered this whole ridiculous wild goose chase in order to turn around the plane taking me to exile and death so that I could return to play your melodramatic games—”

Moran laughed. “You’re a fine one! Accusing _me_ of being dramatic!”

“—and to what end? Revenge? You would have had that anyway, I wouldn’t have lasted more than six months in Eastern Europe, so why?”

“Oh, Sherlock, you are a fool. Don’t you know that there are things worse than death?”

In response he sneered, “Enlighten me.”

“I don’t have to. You already know everything that you need to.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched, “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Look around you, anything grab your attention?”

His first assessment had been that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the grounds. That still stood. Catering staff were preparing indoors, no doubt, and the guests had all gone inside for the ceremony that would begin in a matter of minutes. Nothing stood out, everything looked exactly as it should—

And then he saw it.

Nestled behind trees, the barn where the reception would be held in an hour’s time was a quaint, but otherwise unremarkable building. Except for one thing. At the apex of the roof, above the barn doors a weather vane lazily twisted from side to side, glinting in the early afternoon light, making it hard for him to see at first what it was. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the dazzling flares, he saw the jagged edges of a circular object come into focus. It was a flower of some sort, though the petals looked strangely sharp—  Wait. No. It was a _sun_. In his head he heard the words spoken to him less that forty eight hours earlier, _Your world will end under the sun,_ and instantly he knew. The blood draining from him so quickly that he swayed.

Stevie was still talking as Sherlock took off running, self-congratulatory nonsense even though his voice was still in that sickly sweet tone he used on everyone he’d managed to fool. He could barely hear the words over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Panic. Pure panic. He’d never felt anything remotely like it before in his life, not even when he’d jumped from the roof of Bart’s or made his first kill just weeks later. There were few people in this world that he loved, but all of them were gathered together in one place. Vulnerable, easy to destroy in one fell swoop.

The old Tythe Barn seemed to be further from reach with every desperate stride he took. Through hedges, over gravel paths, Sherlock ran, until at last he reached the unlocked doors.

At first he saw nothing. Bright sunlight gave way to the darkness of the dining room, laid out beautifully with candles and sparkling crystal. Above the dance floor, in the minstrels gallery, a bank of monitors – security cameras showing footage of the grounds – flickered. When his eyes finally adjusted, he tried to take everything in at once, and still he saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to give him the slightest concern.

Behind him he heard footsteps on the gravel and the click of a gun being primed.

Stevie came to stand at Sherlock’s back, the loaded barrel pressing into his coat. “You still don’t get it yet, do you?”

Loathe to admit that, no, he didn’t understand, Sherlock stayed silent, frantically running scenarios and images through his mind. “Oh, let me guess,” he mocked. “You’re going to kill me.”

“That would show a distinct lack of imagination, don’t you think?” he said as he brought the handle of his gun crashing down on Sherlock’s head.

~o0oo0oo0o~

 

It hurt to even move his eyelids when he woke, still Sherlock blinked the film that clouded his vision away, trying his hardest to bring the world back into focus. Sharp pain shooting though his head, and a slow irritating trickle of blood cut a path though the beaded sweat on his forehead, still he struggled to pull himself upright and make sense of his surroundings. Hands and feet bound to the chair he was sitting in, Sherlock couldn’t move. In front of him was the bank of monitors he’d seen when he first entered the barn. On the screens were images of his family, his friends. His Molly. A camera in the Orangery where the ceremony was about to begin was trained on a tense looking Mycroft, a white rose in the lapel of his morning coat. By his side stood Lestrade, clearly a last minute replacement for the best man who’d failed to show.

Moran sat with his hands at the keyboard, adjusting the feed until he had the shots of the people he wanted. He zoomed in on Mycroft’s tight expression, “You’ve always been such a disappointment to him. Does it hurt you to know that he’ll die thinking that you’d let him down yet again?”

Though it caused him pain to move his head, Sherlock turned to look at Moran. His eyes were manic.

“Do you understand _now_ , Sherlock?”

Even as his ears rung from the blow dealt to him, the white noise that had been interfering with his deductions began to quieten. He’d once told John that he couldn’t turn it off – the stream of information that flowed through him, analysed, categorised and stored happened in the same way that others walked, breathed. It was a reflex, a muscle that worked without explicit conscious instruction. Something he had no real control over. It was also true to that it couldn’t be turned on at will. Deduction was not a magic trick, and Sherlock was not a side show freak who could be made to perform on command. For weeks now, Moran had been right under his nose, manipulating Sherlock’s world and everyone in it. And he’d failed to see. Now though, as he watched something wild and unimaginably dangerous unleashed before him, everything was clear.

“You never intended for me to die.”

“ _Yeeeessss_ , go on.”

“That’s why you broadcast Moriarty’s message when you did. You’d been planning this for months. My exile and subsequent death would have destroyed everything you’d worked for.”

“Clever boy, continue.”

“You blame me for Moriarty’s death.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “You loved him. Not as a devotee, but it was romantic. _Unreciprocated_.”

That one word, the suggestion that he could never have the one thing he’d wanted most in this world angered Stevie and he stood, striking Sherlock’s face with his clenched fist. He pointed at the screen showing Molly, and Sherlock’s stomach clenched in terror.

“ _She_ got in the way. He would’ve— could’ve— ” Stevie stopped and drew a breath. “Eventually he might have _seen_ me. But then you came along, and you were all he could think about. _Oh_ , how he loved to watch you dance to his tune. You were so alike. Both so clever. For the longest time I though he was in love with you. Even if I was jealous of the way he looked at you, the way he talked about you, it gave me hope.  Even when he’d started staying the night at Mousey Molly Hooper’s, I thought, he’s using her to get to Sherlock, he couldn’t actually _like_ that bland little slip of a thing. Then I realised just how alike you both were. You’d think that men like you and Jim want danger, that you’d want excitement. But you don’t, do you? What you really want is something safe. Someone who’ll stop the poison inside that flows through your veins from killing you. You both wanted something different from who you really are. And how did she repay his love? She helped you end his life and fake your own death. Molly Hooper, the one girl that everyone had overlooked, was the only one you trusted, and Jamie had been so blind to it because he wanted her. She loved you like I loved him, and together you took him from me. He was the only person I’d ever really cared about.”

With a dawning horror, Sherlock said, “So you’re going to take her away from me.”

Stevie smiled, cruel and cold, looking at the monitor that showed the entire congregation. “No. Not just her. All of them. Every person who lived because Jim died – John, Mary, Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, every last one of them will die while you watch, knowing that it’s because of you.”

Sherlock pulled against the ropes that held him, lunging forward as much as the restraints allowed. “If you so much as harm a hair on the heads of anyone in that room I will dedicated my entire life to tracking you down.” Then he said, low and sure, “And I will kill you.”

“You won’t have the chance.”

Sherlock glared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Can’t you guess? When this is all done, when your life is ruined and everything you ever cared about is destroyed, I’m going to go be with Jamie. Now,” he said, “lovely as our little chat has been, I’ve a wedding to attend.”

Stevie leaned down, laughing he kissed Sherlock’s temple and whispered in his ear, “I hope you enjoy the show.”

The silence when he left, closing the barn doors behind him, was broken only by the sound of Sherlock’s harsh, irregular breathing, and the strains of Pachelbel's Canon in D major playing softly in the distance.

On the screen before him, his brother took his bride’s hand, and Molly – Dear God, _his Molly_ – turned her face to look at them, the monitor’s screen filled with her dazzling and brilliant smile of pure joy.

For a split second, her happy gaze went to the camera and they were looking into each other’s eyes. Pain that had nothing to do with his injuries burned so brightly that it took his breath away. Sherlock began to struggle once more with his bonds, and as he did an image was overlaid with that of the woman he loved. A timer. One that told him Molly Hooper and everyone he had ever loved had less than fifteen minutes to live.


End file.
